


Catching Felines (For You)

by Rowantreeisme



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Puns, Cats, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-16 15:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16956420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowantreeisme/pseuds/Rowantreeisme
Summary: It's really none of Steve's business. Really, it's not. Tony's free time is exactly that, his free time. Tony can... go out with whoever he wants. Steve's not jealous. He just wishes that he could be the one to put that happy look on Tony's face. That's all.Tony doesn't understand why Steve is acting so weird around him, all of a sudden. He's stopped trying to reach out - those small safe touches that Tony really should not be craving so much - and he barely looks at him anymore. Tony doesn't know what he did. He doesn't know how to fix this, and it hurts.He knows the cat shelter he volunteers at doesn't have any answers, but at least the cats won't judge him for being a stupid, lovesick, idiot.(Or, Tony volunteers at a shelter. Steve gets the wrong idea, and everything falls apart from there.)





	1. Cat Got Your Tongue?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuperstringSymphony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperstringSymphony/gifts).



> This is basically your standard post-avengers fic. Everyone's happy, and friendly, and everyone lives at the tower.   
> A couple notes: Some things are borrowed from early 616 canon, like, specifically, the chest plate, but there's no secret identity. No one but Pepper and Rhodey knows about the chest plate, and Tony's doing his best to hide it for his usual reasons.   
> This was inspired by a very old conversation with the wonderful Luna (superstringsymphony) and it was too good not to write.  
> Enjoy!   
> (Luna, if you're reading this, ily.)

Steve was pretty sure he hadn’t felt this giddy since — well, ever, he was pretty sure.

He’d stressed over what to wear for — well, longer than he was willing to admit, eventually, going with a blue button-down, sleeves half-rolled up, and a pair of jeans. 

He’d fussed with his hair, combing it over and back how he used to wear it, before, fluffing it into spikes, until he just gave up and left it flopping over his forehead. 

The flowers, he’d gotten on his run, the bright reds and oranges, like a living sunset, splashed with soft blue, had caught his eye where they were sitting outside a flower-shop, 

They had, he wasn’t ashamed to admit, immediately reminded him of Tony. 

And — ok, it had been a good day, a _great_ day, really, bright, and sunny, but cool enough that he didn’t have to worry about overheating, and he’d seen Tony at breakfast, even though the other man was already dressed up, a piece of toast in-between his teeth as he wrapped a watch around his wrist. 

_”Hey, shellhead,” Steve had greeted, smiled at him over his paper, hid the widening smile between his coffee mug as Tony grunted in response._

_Trying to fill himself a go-mug of coffee, and put his watch on at the same time, wasn’t working well for him, and Steve watched him try for another second before getting up himself, taking the step around the counter. “Here,” He said, reached out, held Tony’s wrist in his own, latched the watch neatly around his wrist, Tony’s other hand free to finish his toast, and grab his coffee. Steve let his hands linger, maybe for too long, traced a thumb along the soft skin of Tony’s wrist before letting go._

_”Thanks,” Tony had said, slightly muffled through his toast, raised his mug at Steve in a careless half-salute, and then he was out the door._

Steve was almost certainly reading too far into it, but — Tony hadn’t shied away from being touched like he usually did, hadn’t even flinched when Steve had reached out, even though he almost always ducked away from other friendly touches, the same ones he handed out easily, carelessly, like they didn’t mean anything at all. 

Of course, Steve treasured those little touches — a hand on a shoulder, on his back as Tony passed him, the half-hugs that iron man used to carry him, — probably more than a little too much. 

He treasured the times that Tony let him touch back — like then, in the kitchen — even more. 

So Steve was feeling brave, and stupid, the textbook definition of butterflies in his stomach, and he’d bought flowers, and he was going to ask Tony out on a date. 

He wasn’t scared — ok, he was, a cacophony of _what if’s_ echoing in his head, what if Tony rejected him, what if Tony hated him for presuming, what if, what if, what if, — but he’d seen Tony with ms. Potts, how they still sat close, on those rare occasions she visited, traded easy banter that edged into flirting, and as far as Steve knew, they were nothing more than friends anymore. 

Even if — and god, he hoped he hadn’t been reading those bright looks Tony had sent him, across the room wrong — Tony rejected him, even if they didn’t work out, if Tony had remained on good terms with ms Potts, Steve was sure they could continue being friends. 

Sure, he knew Tony had… tense relationships, with some of his ex’s, but that was clearly only the case because most of them had tried to kill Tony, at one point or another. 

Steve would die himself before every being like Sunset Bain, or, god forbid, _Tiberius Stone._

So, yes, he was nervous, and yes, he was more than a little scared, but he wasn’t going to think badly enough of Tony to think that he would ever be anything less than perfectly courteous, even in rejection.

Tony wasn’t in the common area when Steve stepped out, but Natasha was.

Natasha looked him up and down, eyebrows climbing up, and her lips pursed in a low whistle. Steve felt himself blush, did his best to shove it, and the disappointment at not seeing Tony, down. “Hot date, Rogers?” She asked, “Who’s the lucky lady?” Something must’ve shown on Steve’s face, because her eyebrows climbed even higher. “Lucky guy?” She continued, and Steve, even knowing that Natasha wouldn’t attack him, not for this, tensed, but she just continued, “No wonder you didn’t take me up on setting you up, you should’ve said something, I know lots—“ 

“Nat,” Steve warned, but he was smiling, let the tension drain out of his shoulders, at the familiar, friendly teasing. “And, for your information, it’s not a date.” 

“Oh,” Natasha said, eyes sparkling in that way that usually made Steve very, very worried, “Asking someone out, I see, I see,” She said, “Well, looking like that,” Steve flushed, a little more, but he was glad that Natasha seemed to approve of his choice of clothes. Despite her constant attempts to meddle in his love life, or lack thereof, he had to admit that if she had good judgment. If he hadn’t been fawning over Tony, he most likely would’ve taken up her offer to set up a date for him at some point. “I don’t see how anyone’s gonna say no.” She paused, for a second, “Who is it?” 

“I don’t even know if he’s gonna say yes, Nat,” Steve protested, “And I don’t want you spying on him, even if he does, come on—“

“No spying!” She interrupted, eyes wide in faux-innocence that Steve didn’t buy at all, “Just… a quick background check, wouldn’t want him to be a secret spy, or something—“ 

“He’s not a secret spy,” Steve told her, exasperated, “Come on—“

“You never know!” She continued, leaning forwards over the counter, “Could be a sleeper, specifically designed to bag Captain America, you’d never know until it was too late—“ 

“I doubt Hydra knows my type,” He said dryly, “And that’s excessively paranoid, even for you. I _know_ you just want gossip material.” 

“You can’t prove anything,” She told him primly, “I am just looking out for my good, dear, friend’s safety—“ 

“No, Nat” Steve told her, already taking steps towards the elevator, “Now I am gonna leave this room, and you are not going to tail me, and hopefully, I am going to get a date.” 

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t follow him, and Steve stepped neatly into the conveniently open elevator, the doors closing in front of him. “Workshop, please,” He said, looking up towards the ceiling. 

There was a beat of silence. “If you are looking for Sir,” JARVIS said, slowly, “He still has not returned.” 

Steve, abruptly, felt his stomach plummet. “Oh,” He said, holding the flowers a little lower. “Uh, do you know when he’ll be back?” 

JARVIS’s voice was apologetic when he next spoke. “There was a situation at Stark Industries, I do not know how much longer he will be. Do you want me to tell him you are waiting for him when he gets back?” 

The elevator was already moving back to Steve’s rooms, and Steve sighed. “No, that’s ok. I can talk to him when he gets back?” 

The elevator slowed to a stop, but didn’t open. “Of course, Captain.” JARVIS said, paused for a beat. “I wish you luck.”

There was a lump in Steve’s throat, and he fruitlessly tried to swallow it down. “Thanks,” He said, knew the sentiment was far too little, for what JARVIS had offered him, both wordless or not. The fact that he had JARVIS’s approval, that JARVIS, the person who knew Tony best of all of them, who had known Tony the longest, of all of them, thought that he had a chance. 

The doors opened, and he stepped into his rooms. With a heavy sigh, he put the bouquet down on the counter, filled a vase with water and propped it inside, not wanting it to wilt. 

After getting his sketchbook, he sat down on the couch, and put on some nature documentaries to watch.

And then, Steve waited. 

* * *

Tony pushed through the door with all the gravitas and drama of a half-asleep grocery cashier. The woman sitting at the front desk looked up when the bell chimed, and smiled at him. “Hey, Mr. Stark,” She greeted, hopped down from her chair, plucked a set of keys from the desk.

“Hey, Hackett,” Tony returned, wanted to wince at how exhausted he sounded. “You’ve seen me soaking wet and bleeding from multiple places, I think we’ve graduated to a first-name basis, at this point, you can call me Tony—“ 

“Not a chance,” Lana interrupted, grinning, “Rough day?” 

“You could say that,” Tony agreed tiredly, “Everyone I work with is _incompetent,_ it’s the _worst._ ” 

“I hope you’re not taking about the Avengers,” Lana said mildly, unlocking the back door, “Because that is not good for morale. You’d have a crisis on your hands if anyone heard you.” 

Despite himself, Tony snorted. “No, I didn’t even see them today. These aren’t even my people, technically, if they were I would’ve replaced them all with robots by now. Robots are nice. Robots don’t fuck up basic tasks they have done literally hundreds of times. Who’s in today?” He asked, abruptly changing the thread of the conversation, as Lana snorted at his whining, leading the way through the facility. 

“Like you don’t already know all of our schedules,” Lana told him, and Tony made a face.

“It sounds super creepy when you say it like that,” Tony protested, “Yes, ok, I’m here a lot, but all of you have actual lives—“ Lana snorted at that “— and I don’t actively try to know these things, come on—“

Finally, Lana took pity on him. “Max’s just cleaning up,” She said, “Should be out soon. I’ve got paperwork, gonna be staying late, you know the drill.” 

“Good,” Tony said, “Max is good, he’s not overly starstruck, or anything.” 

Lana snorted. “I think you’re the only one who’s ever said that about Max,” She told him, “I’m pretty sure he’s got a poster of you, in between Turing and Lovelace.” 

Tony stopped dead, blinked at her. “Seriously? That’s… that’s actually very flattering. I’m flattered, please insert an approriprate sex joke into the conversation for me here, I… I do _not_ have the energy to do it myself, I apologize—“

Lana actually laughed at that, high and clear, knocked twice on the door, where Max’s — one of the shelter’s youth volunteers — head turned to look at them, eyes going very wide for a split second. “Just a sec!” He called, and the tell-tale sound of someone desperately trying to herd cats came through the door before it opened, just enough for Tony and Lana to slip through. “Hey,” He said, and, ok, maybe ‘not overly starstruck’ wasn’t the best descriptor, but he wasn’t… excitable with it, like some of the other volunteers at the shelter were, and while normally Tony was more than happy to field questions from extremely excitable teenagers, today he was just — 

Burnt-out. 

“Hi,” Tony returned, about thirty seconds too late to be considered part of a decent conversation, smiled down at the cats that were already winding around his ankles, demanding pats. “And hey, you miss me? Diddja miss me?” He cooed, bending down to scratch under the chin of a slightly battered-looking tortoiseshell named Rosy. 

He didn’t have to look up to know that Lana was rolling her eyes at him, but he didn’t bother responding, two hands not near enough to dole out affection to half a dozen cats. He levered himself down, scooting to sit against the wall, and almost immediately, all of the cats who had been out of their kennels were clamouring for affection, either just pushing their faces up against any part of him they could reach, or purring and chirping loudly. 

A particularly bossy grey cat climbed up into his lap, stretching it’s head up to butt against Tony’s chin. “Hey,” He said, softer, winced as it leaped up onto his shoulders to curl around his neck like a scarf, it’s claws pricking his skin through his shirt, but he didn’t try to dislodge it. “Hey, Honey,” He said, as another cat curled up in his lap, golden fur soft under his hand.

He sighed, more out of relief than anything else, like something sour and acrid had been trapped in his lungs, and he only had the means to release it now. Pretty much all of the catshad settled in now, purring contentedly, half a dozen low, calming rumbles. 

He could here Lana and Max chatting in one of the other rooms, and for a second, closed his eyes, scratching absently under Honey’s chin. She chirped in response, rubbed her head against his stomach. 

Cats were nice, he’d decided. Better than most people, really. Cats didn’t judge you — at least no more than they judged every other human, and mostly only based on how good at petting you are — cats didn’t purposely break things in his systems in a lousy but time-consuming attempt to con him and his company out of money, and most of all, cats didn’t care that you were such a pathetic, lonely person that you had to get nearly all of the contact you desperately craved from them. 

Cats, especially, didn’t care that your chest was hard metal instead of flesh. 

He allowed himself a single moment, eyes closed, then glanced towards the open kennel he couldn’t quite see into from where he was sitting, signed again and took out his phone. 

Sure, he did come here to relax, in a way he rarely did anywhere else, but that didn’t mean he could just drop all his many responsibilities for even a couple minutes, much less an hour or two. 

He was, however, a very good multitasker. He could work, go through trouble tickets from the new OS on his phone, make phone calls, that sort of things, while half-buried under cats and being bossed around by Lana. He was talented like that. 

He glanced back at the kennel, frowning. Most of the cats had settled down from their initial excitement, and any of the younger ones that hadn’t had wandered off to go bother Lana and Max, after figuring out that Tony wasn’t going to play with them. Usually, at this point, Monty would’ve already been out. 

“Monty,” He called, “Hey, you shy?” 

There was no response, not even a flash of an eye from inside the kennel, and Tony felt dread start to pool in his stomach, carefully relocated Honey and Rosy so he could stand, stepped over to the kennel. 

It was empty. 

“Hackett?” He called, not taking his eyes off the empty kennel, “Where’s Monty? 

Lana’s head poked around the corner. “What?” She said, noticed where Tony was looking, “Oh, right, I knew I was forgetting to tell you something.”

She stepped around the door, and, ok, Tony should not be panicking, there was no indication that anything was wrong, aside from, youknow, the fact that Montgomery, the reason Tony had found this place, the old, scraggly orange Maine Coon he’d saved from freezing, was not _here,_ that wasn’t a valid reason to panic, he could be in the back, where they put the cats that needed to calm down, or in the attached vet clinic, or, anything, really, everything was fine, clearly, because Lana didn’t look upset, nor pitying, and she wasn’t at all the type to sugar-coat things. 

There wasn’t any reason to panic. And, yet, Tony was pretty sure that he was, in fact, panicking. 

“Did you hear me?” Lana said, exasperated, and either she hadn’t noticed Tony’s impeding breakdown, or just didn’t care, or most likely, wasn’t trying to freak Tony out _more_ by mentioning it, “He got adopted!” 

The relief Tony felt at those three words was almost enough to knock him over, which was stupid, because it was just a cat, he shouldn’t— 

Fine. Fine. Yes, he did absolutely care that much about the bitchy old one-eyed cat he’d rescued almost— damn, almost two years ago, all the way back when the Tower was still under construction, before the whole portal debacle had gone down. “That’s— when?” 

“His new owner brought him home yesterday,” Lana explained, “She’s been coming here for almost a week, and yesterday, he’d warmed up to her enough that she decided she wanted to bring him home.” 

“That’s great!” Tony said, even as something squeezed uncomfortably in his chest, “He deserves a good home,” He said, and Lana gave him a look, and he hurriedly backtracked. “Not that this place isn’t nice, it’s great, really, but—“

Lana’s stern mask broke into a grin, and she shook her head. “You’re so _easy,_ ” She teased, “Of course he deserves a good home. I’m under no illusions that this place is a perfect substitute for that. You know,” She said, tone softening, “She’s coming back tomorrow, so I can make sure he’s settling in ok, I could set up a meeting if you wanted?” 

_Yes,_ Tony wanted to say, instantly. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” He said instead.

“Nonsense,” Lana said, already bustling off, checking off the feeding, cleaning charts “You’re not imposing, I’m asking. She’s coming over at two, you’ll be there.” 

“Well,” Tony said, smiling, barely, “If you say it like that. You’re not gonna tell her who I am, are you.”

It wasn’t a question. “I’ll tell her that the person who found Monty wants to see him again,” She said. “You can introduce yourself.” 

“You just like seeing people freak out,” Tony accused, “You know I won’t have to introduce myself.” 

“You had to introduce yourself to me,” She retorted, gestured, and grinning, Tony ducked into the supply closet. He liked Lana, her no-nonsense manner, the fact that when he was here, she put him to work in the same manner she put her high-school volunteers to work. 

“Yeah, well, I was covered in snow and had an extremely pissed-off cat in my jacket,” Tony said, hefting the bag of cat food, dutifully following Lana around the room, filling up the bowls as he went. “I don’t blame you for not recognizing me.”

“Max recognized you.” Lana told him, “Took me ages to find out why he kept poking me.” 

“Yeah, well, Max is—“

“A shameless nerd?” Lana suggested, and Tony laughed out loud. 

“That is not what I was gonna say,” Tony said, “But, that’s probably accurate.”

“Definitely accurate,” Lana muttered, double-checked her task chart. “Fill up the water bowls, would you?”

Rosy nearly tripped him when she wound around his ankles insistently, and Tony looked up. “Sure thing, boss.” He told her, and Lana shook her head. 

“You’re ridiculous.” She told him, but she was smiling. 

Cats, Tony had decided, were better than most people. But the people here, Lana, and Max, and the other volunteers, were _almost_ as good as the company they kept. 

* * *

Steve had waited an hour, two, three, until it was nearly midnight and he was almost certain that Tony wouldn’t be coming home in any sort of reasonable time.

He was disappointed, yeah, but more than that, worried for Tony. 

He hoped everything at SI was going well, but considering how late it was and that Tony still wasn’t back, he doubted it. 

His stomach growled, and with a sigh, he got up from the couch. He’d get something to eat in the common kitchen, maybe wait around a little longer, make sure Tony was alright, that he got some food, that he got to bed at some time reasonable. 

He was halfway through making a plate of sandwiches, cucumbers and pepperoni and fresh, crunchy lettuce, when the elevator door chimed pleasantly. 

Steve turned, and the happy greeting that had been half past his lips died in his throat as Tony walked out. 

Tony, wearing the same suit jacket, which was slightly rumpled, over a different shirt than he had been, hair fluffy and disheveled, a relaxed, satisfied smile on his face. 

Disappointment and helpless arousal at seeing Tony, clearly fresh from _something_ pleasurable, something he’d had to change clothes after, mixed in his gut. “Hey,” He said, blinked, draped his suit jacket over the back of a chair carelessly — _of course, carelessly,_ a bitter voice in Steve’s head told him, _it was clearly just on someone else’s floor_ , — and came around to see what Steve was doing. 

Silently, not trusting his voice, Steve shoved a diagonal-cut sandwich on a plate over. 

“Mm, thanks,” He said, already digging into the food, “Missed lunch, this is _great_ —“

“And supper?” Steve asked, clicked his mouth shut. What Tony did in his free time was _not_ his business, no matter how much he wanted it to be, and— Tony looked _happy._

Tony didn’t seem to notice the slight bite in his tone. “Yeah,” He said, throat working to swallow his bite, “Didn’t get a chance to grab a bite,”

Jealousy, hot and thick and horrible, wrapped its way up into Steve’s chest. “Well,” He said, chose his next words carefully, “It looks like— whatever you did, after, you had a good time, and— I’m glad.” 

Tony blinked, looked surprised for a second. “Thanks, Steve,” He said finally, earnestly, like what Steve thought actually _mattered,_ and— 

Steve shoved the half-full plate of sandwiches over to Tony, stood abruptly from the counter. 

Tony frowned at him. “You’re not gonna eat these?” He asked, confusion lacing his tone. 

“Not hungry,” Steve bit, and walked away. 

The flowers, still lush and healthy, mocked him when he got back to his apartment. 


	2. The Claw-m of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha does relationship advice, and we meet the elusive Monty.

“Date didn’t go well?”

Steve jumped, just barely restrained himself from throwing the remote he was holding at the familiar voice. “Jesus, Nat, you can’t just sneak up on someone like that,” He snapped, maybe a little more harshly than was warranted. 

Natasha hummed, hopped over the couch to sit beside him, not quite close enough that they were touching, but close enough that Steve felt, and appreciated, the gesture. “What happened?” 

Steve glared at the flowers — which were still sitting in their vase, because he didn’t have the heart to toss them, to just… throw away, what they represented — and sighed, at the genuinely concerned look on Natasha’s face. “I missed my chance,” He said, simply, looked down at his hands. “He was… already with someone else. I was too late.” _Again,_ He thought, morosely, and then quietly berated himself for it. 

He hadn’t _lost_ anything, Tony was still his friend, he was still here, and… 

He’d never had Tony to begin with. There wasn’t anything he _could’ve_ lost. He shouldn’t be moping about something that he’d barely had a chance to have to begin with. 

Steve could see Natasha looking at him out of the corner of his eye, didn’t look up at her. “You really liked him, whoever it was.” She said finally, after scrutinizing him for another moment longer. Steve made a small, humourless sound. 

“Yeah,” He agreed, hollow-sounding, even though the sentiment, _you like him_ , was hilariously, horribly, understated. Like saying that the ocean was deep, like saying the sky was big. Accurate, but with none of the appropriate weight. He loved Tony, he was pretty sure. He loved him, and the ocean was fathomless, and the sky stretched further than he would ever see. “Yeah, I did.” 

Natasha was silent for a beat. “So… will you let me set you up now? You know, a rebound—“

Steve’s head whipped around, and he glared at her. “No.” He snapped, “No, that’s not— no—“ He deflated, all the misplaced anger going out of him in a sigh. “I’m just—“

“You still like him. Whoever he is.” Natasha finished for him, “And even though he’s with someone else, you trying to do the same thing feels like a betrayal.”

Steve looked over at her in surprise, and she shrugged, stood from the couch with a crooked smile. “Reading people is my job, Steve. Stay here.” 

“Ok?” He said, slightly confused. 

The bouquet drew his gaze again, magnetic, the bright colours mocking him. 

“You want me to toss it?” Natasha asked, from right behind him, and Steve jumped again. 

“What?” He asked, brain not quite caught up to what she’d said, and she rolled her eyes at him, pointed her thumb at the offending flowers, dropped a pint of ice-cream, one of the two she was holding, in his lap. 

“The flowers,” She said, “Want me to toss them?” 

She’d taken a step towards them, and Steve was pretty sure his heart jumped three speeds. “No!” He said, half-frantic, realized he was standing, collapsed back into the couch, “I— please don’t.” Natasha looked at him, but shrugged, dropped down on the couch beside him. “Wait, why do we have ice-cream?” 

“Classic heartbreak food,” She explained, passed him a spoon and pried her own lid off. “JARVIS, you know what to do.” 

Steve looked down at his pint, wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh, or cry at the flavour she’d picked out for him. _Stark-Raving Hazelnuts._

Instead of doing either, he just stared at it, didn’t move to open the lid even as the opening music for whatever sappy rom-com Natasha had picked out started playing. 

Natasha was saying something, snapped her hand in front of his face, still locked to the top of the lid. “What?” He asked, embarrassed at having being caught not paying attention in favour of staring at ice-cream, and for a moment, was nearly certain she’d figured it out. 

“Wanna trade? I thought you liked chocolate, but—“ 

Natasha’s pint, Steve realized, was _Pi-smash-io_ , after the Hulk, and she was holding it out towards him. Steve, despite himself, smiled. “No,” He said, “That’s ok. This is perfect.” 

And, he thinks, it is. About as perfect as it can be, with helpless frustration and something that almost feels like grief clogging up his chest, anger, at himself, for waiting too long, again, all tangled up in one knotted mess. Beside him, some of the tension Steve can only now notice in retrospect leaves Natasha’s frame, and he remembers, that for all her bravo, for all her reputation, for all her attempted meddling in Steve’s love life, she’s on just as uneven footing here as he is. 

Steve’s throat clogged with emotion, and he pried open his ice-cream top. “It’s perfect,” He repeated, slightly thickly, unable to put the gratefulness he felt at her being brave enough to reach out to try to help him into words. 

Natasha glanced over at him, side-long, a decent dent in her ice-cream already. “Please don’t cry on me,” She said, only half-joking, “I brought tissues, use those instead—“ 

“I’m not going to cry on you,” Steve interrupted, almost proved himself a liar right there and then. “Thank you,” He said, softer, “Really, this means— a lot. It means a lot.” 

A smile tugged at Natasha’s lips, and she turned back to her ice cream. “Eat Stark’s nuts, you big lug.” She told him, and Steve nearly choked on his own mouthful. 

“Natasha!” He said, once he’d avoided suffocating on his ice cream, hoped his flush could be chalked up to the crassness and the coughing, rather than his imagination, which was helpfully supplying him images of just what Natasha had suggested. 

Natasha snorted at him, went back to her own tub with vigour. “Come on,” She said, “I’ll kick your ass after we finish these, work off all this dairy.” 

“Oh,” Steve said, because this was clearly a competition now, “You’ll kick _my_ ass. You sure about that?” 

“Yes,” She told him, like it was obvious, “You’ve barely eaten any of that, come on. Of course I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Steve stuck his spoon out and stole a bite of her ice-cream, just to be an asshole. Natasha gasped at him, fake-offended. “Oh, really?” He said, and started in on his ice cream in earnest. 

He didn’t even know what movie she’d gotten JARVIS to put on, and honestly, Steve wasn’t sure he was going to, at the rate this was going. Natasha retaliated against his theft, and even though he tried to parry her spoon away, she was far too fast for him, and in between fending off her attacks, and trying to scarf down as much of his ice cream as he could, he was barely paying attention. 

That… was probably for the best, honestly. He was sure if he actually did pay attention to whatever drama was playing right now, he’d get stuck thinking about Tony again, and that would inevitably lead to jealousy, and being angry at himself for being jealous, and moping. 

Lots, and lots, of moping. 

Trying — and failing — to not let Natasha kick his ass, though, that would be good. One helluva lot better than punching bags until his knuckles were bloody, at the very least. 

Steve… wasn’t gonna think about what he was gonna do after that most likely ill-fated sparing match. 

He just wasn’t.

* * *

Three hours, two pints of ice-cream, one embarrassingly emotional reaction to the movie from Steve, nearly half a box of tissues, and about five rounds in the ring later, Steve was laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to force himself to sleep through sheer force of will.

Improbably, sparring with the black widow had actually made him feel _better,_ which was most likely not something most of the people she’d sparred with had could say, but now, after most of the adrenaline and exercise-released endorphins had worn off, he was back to moping. 

He didn’t want to be moping, was the thing. It felt… selfish, to be this upset, especially since Tony had seemed so… happy, when he’d come home. 

And this… it felt wrong, somehow, to call it heartbreak, and it wasn’t simply jealousy, tangled up with his genuine desire to see Tony happy, and cared for, and _loved_ , made him feel like through feeling like this, he was somehow betraying Tony. 

How could he say he cared for Tony, when he felt like _this_ at seeing him happy? How could he say that he loved him, when this awful, roiling mix of anger and envy was sitting heavy in his stomach? 

What kind of person was he, that he was wishing his best friend away from someone who loved him? Someone that made him happy? 

There was a low, wounded sound, and Steve realized that it had been him, turned over onto his other side, did his best to ignore that his pillow was more than a little damp. 

* * *

After eating one of the sandwiches — no way could he ever be able to finish the entire plate — and putting the rest back in the fridge, Tony had gone to bed.

Sure, he could pop into the workshop, see if there was anything quick he needed to do, but— 

Knowing himself, he’d end up working until the sun was up, and then he’d be royally screwed for all the meetings he had the next day. Besides, he actually thought he could maybe get to sleep, the little voice in his head that screamed at him to _build,_ to _fix,_ to _solve,_ constantly spitting out ideas, was quieter, now. Not quiet, it was never quiet, but… 

Less so than it was those nights he tossed and turned in bed, trying to sleep, and never quite managing it. 

So, sleep. Because Pepper would not hesitate to cut him off if he showed up to tomorrow’s meetings with a thermos full of triple-shot, and because trying to deal with the asshole contractors that were _still_ trying to scam him out of money on no sleep was just asking for trouble. 

And, pathetic as it was, he wanted to make a good impression on whoever had adopted Monty, and showing up dead on his feet was not a good way to do that. 

As he drifted off to sleep, easily, for the first time in a while, he half-heartedly wondered what was up with Steve.

* * *

Any concerns about Steve’s strange behaviour flew right out of his head the next day, which had hit him like a train and then just kept coming, like the conductor of said train's only goal in life was to make Tony into a pancake. 

The meeting, as he’d expected, was stressful, loud, and a complete and utter waste of his time. The other board members kept telling Tony that they should just pay the contractors what they were asking for to do the work again, and properly, and Pepper was the only one who was backing him up. 

He _knows_ the plans he sent over for the new expansion to the LA facility, and he knows that this disaster would not have happened if the contractors had followed them. 

_The plans were wrong,_ his ass, they were scamming him, and they’d put his people in danger doing it. He wasn’t just going to roll over and give up.

The only downside of that plan, was that he was pretty sure he was gonna fly out, and rip these assholes a new one in person, and the only good thing about that was that he’d get to see Pepper and Happy.

Hell, maybe he could get Steve to come with him, under the guise of finally showing him the Malibu house. That would certainly make the four hours there and back more enjoyable, and it might even cheer Steve up from whatever funk he’d been in last night. He resolved himself to ask when he got home, and pushed the doors to the shelter open. 

Lana was back at her desk, and looked up at him judgingly. “You’re late,” She said, made a show of checking her empty wrist, “Half an hour.”

Tony winced, shucked his jacket off. “Not my fault,” He said, “I tried to leave earlier, this meeting wasn’t supposed to go longer than quarter-to, but—“

“Lucky for you, Monty’s owner is still here, just trying to coax him out from under the sink.” She interrupted him, and finally, smiled conspiringly. “I think she’ll be a little longer.”

Tony took the implied invitation, sat on one of the chairs. “Monty’s all good?” He asked, “And, you’re not gonna help her? That’s a little mean.” 

“Monty’s perfect,” She told him, “He’s her problem now, if getting him out from under the sink is too much trouble, she might as well leave him here.” 

Tony considered that. “That’s fair, I guess. I just—“

He was interrupted by nearly 20 pounds of cat leaping into his lap, knocking the wind out of him, claws pricking at his thighs. 

“Ohmygod.” Someone called, but Tony’s attention was already focused on Monty, who was curling up in his lap like he belonged there, and Tony scratched behind one of his tattered ears as a woman — presumably Monty’s adopter, college-age, he’d guess — ran out of the doors to the clinic, “I am so sorry, he’s usually much more… less friendly—“

“I know,” Tony told her, as Monty purred, the strange, wheezing stutter-stop that sounded more at home in a car from the 50’s than it did in a living animal. 

The woman didn’t seem to hear him, an anxious look on her face as she tried, and failed, to call Monty back to her. “— This hasn’t happened before, I’m so sorry, Montgomery, _get back here—_ ”

Monty didn’t move, just continued getting himself comfortable on Tony’s lap. “It’s fine,” He said, softening his voice like he’d do when talking to some poor, traumatized civilian, even though he had to raise his volume due to Monty’s purring, “Really—“

“—This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my life,” The woman muttered, “I am going to die, I am going to die, oh my _god—_ ”

Lana chose that moment to finally get up from her chair. “Good,” She said, “You’re both here. Mr. Stark, Ms. Morris. Ms. Morris, Mr. Stark, he’s the one who found Monty.” 

Tony stood, easily hefting Monty — he was a big cat, but Tony lifted large pieces of metal for a living, and with the way his claws were digging into Tony’s legs and shoulders, he doubted even if he did let go the damn cat would fall — and nodded at Morris. “Good to meet you.” 

Morris blinked, shut her mouth with a click, stuck out her hand half-way before realizing that Tony was holding an armful of cat, and couldn’t shake her hand. “Uh, good to meet you too? I’m Amanda, and you’re— You’re Tony Stark, holy _shit_ —“

“That I am—“

“—and my cat just mauled you, please don’t sue me I can’t afford that—“

“I’m not going to sue you,” Tony said, exasperated, “Trust me, this is _not_ a mauling. I’ve _been_ mauled by Monty, this is not—“ Nothing he was saying seemed to be getting through to Morris — Amanda, and he sighed, crouched to set Monty on the ground, “Alright!” He said, loudly. Amanda’s mouth clicked shut again. “Hi,” He said, “I’m Tony, I’m the one who found the crotchety old cat you’ve decided to bring into your home.” 

Amanda blinked, clearly caught on. “Hi,” She said, more tentatively, glanced back at Lana, like she was seeking help, “I’m Amanda, and… I’m the one who’s adopting the cat you found, and, uh… how did that go, exactly? Monty’s not exactly…”

“Oh, he’s an asshole,” Tony finished for her, grinned, glad that the curiosity was clearly winning out over the anxiety. “He nearly bit my finger off,” Tony said, held up his left hand and waggled his ring finger, where a thin crescent of bite-marks wrapped around it, just under the first joint, “Carried him all the way here inside my jacket. You can imagine how well that went.” 

“Dumbass stayed around until we were sure Monty was alright,” Lana interrupted, “Wouldn’t leave for nothing, not even the rabies.” 

“You got rabies?” Amanda asked, eyes wide.

Tony sent a half-hearted glare over at Lana. “I did not get rabies, I got a shot, everything was fine.” 

“You only _got_ after I marched you out the door,” Lana accused, huffed at him and turned back to her paperwork. “Well, you two know each other now, my job here is done.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” Tony said, too late, as Lana pushed through the clinic door. Amanda was watching the conversation with wide eyes, had managed to coax Monty onto her lap where she had sat down. 

“So,” She said, paused for a beat to long, like she didn’t quite know how to continue the conversation. “You… know her?”

“Yeah,” Tony said, sat down a respectful distance from Amanda, one that Monty immediately tried to bridge by stretching his entire body over Amanda’s lap, the empty seat between them, and onto Tony’s lap. “I’ve been volunteering here since I dropped Monty off.”

Amanda smiled, gaze fixed on Monty’s contortionist antics, glanced furtively into the kennel room, where Tony could see Lana going about her business. “She kinda scares me,” She admitted, “Thought she was gonna rip my head off, when I brought Montgomery back today.” 

Tony snorted, scratched under Monty’s chin. “Yeah, I can see that,” He said, “But don’t worry, she’s a softy at heart.” 

Lana, of course, heard him. Somehow. “What kinda lies you telling her, Stark?” She called, voice clear even through the door. 

“Nothing but the god-honest truth, Hackett!” Tony called back, grinning. 

Amanda was staring at him. “I don’t think I believe you.” She said, voice incredulous, “That woman is scary and you are _insane_ for thinking otherwise, no offence.”

“None taken,” Tony replied, “I have no doubt she’d skin me alive with the pure force of her rage if I did anything to hurt any of these cats—‘

“And that’s _not_ scary?” 

“—But I have no intention of doing anything like that, ever.” Tony continued, “She’s loyal. That’s… that’s something you’ve always gotta respect.” 

“I guess,” Amanda agreed, petting over Monty’s side. 

Monty was purring happily at the two sets of hands giving him loving, stretched out between them like some strange, fuzzy orange sausage. “Why’d you pick him?” Tony asked, breaking the silence, “He’s… look, I love him, and he’s a sweetheart, when he’s not trying to claw your face off, but… there’s plenty of easier cats, here. Why him?” 

Amanda was silent, for another moment. “I think… he reminds me of my dad, a little. And I just— I fell in love with him, when I saw him. If you’re asking if I weighed the pros of cons, did this logically, I… I didn’t. He was just the one, you know?” 

Monty rolled onto his belly, chin tipped up. “Yeah,” Tony said, “I think I do.” 

His watch beeped, and he just barely restrained himself from knocking his head on the wall behind him, didn’t quite manage to do the same to the inarticulate noise of frustration that made it out of him. 

“Fantastic,” He muttered, started extracting himself from under Monty. “Just… Fantastic. I’ve gotta go, thought I’d have more time,” 

Amanda bundled Monty up into her lap, was looking at him with big eyes. “What’s wrong?” She asked, “Is it… is it an Avenger thing? Is everything ok?”

“No,” Tony said, “It’s not an Avenger thing, unfortunately. Just people being idiots.”

Amanda watched him grab his jacket, and his briefcase, which, luckily, did have a change of clothes in it, bottom lip caught between her teeth, a nervous tic that he wasn’t sure she realized she was doing. “Wait,” She said, dug in her bag for a moment, pulled out a sharpie, “I can give you my phone, if you want, to send you pictures?” 

“Oh,” Tony said, stuck his hand out for her, “Of course, that’s a great idea.”

She uncapped the sharpie between her teeth, and quickly, scribbled her number on the back of his hand, capped it and shoved it back in her bag. “It was nice meeting you,” She told him, earnestly, “Not just because, well, you’re _you,_ and everything, but…” She smiled, small and soft and real, “I met Montgomery, because of you, and that’s… that’s a lot.” 

“It was good to meet you too,” Tony agreed, actually meant it, and wow, he had not said that and _meant_ it in a very, very long time, and walked out of the building, something happy in his chest, even as he walked towards even more meetings, pulled out his phone, and sent a short message to the number on the back of his hand. 


	3. Cat-astrophy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JARVIS, watching these two idiots: This is the reason i will go skynet  
> enjoy

Steve had left the tower in the early morning, after a restless sleep, not willing to take the chance of running into Tony, not quite yet. JARVIS had tried to dissuade him, had told him that he thought that it was a simple understanding, that if he just could tell Tony— 

Steve had shut him down, fear chilling him to the bone, and snapped out an order that JARVIS _couldn’t_ tell Tony what he’d tried to do, what he felt, because— JARVIS had to be reading it wrong, it _wasn’t_ a misunderstanding, Tony had someone else, someone that made him happy, and that— that was fine, he just— 

He’d needed some space, so, instead of doing his pencilling work in the common areas where he usually did, he’d collected his briefcase of half-finished pages, jogged to the office, sat down at the desk that was just a little bit too small for him, picked up his pencil, and started drawing. 

Soon enough, he was in that half-meditative state he often got in when he was drawing, zoned in so far that nothing else mattered. He drew until his fingertips were losing feeling, completing page after page after page in the haze where nothing but the curves and straights, the push and pull, the glide of the pencil in his hand mattered. 

Yes, his body was thrumming with the need to move, the need to do _something,_ restless, pent-up energy making him twitchy. 

But running would give his mind far too little to focus on, far too much time and space to wander, and he couldn’t afford that. He couldn’t afford to _not_ focus, because, undoubtedly, his mind would wander to Tony. How he looked, when he stepped out of that elevator, so… _soft,_ and relaxed, in a way he barely ever let show. The _want,_ and jealousy, intertwined with the memory burned into his mind. 

He wanted to be the reason Tony had that look on his face. That soft, happy, genuinely content look. He wanted to be the one Tony went home to, the one he went out with, he wanted, he wanted, he _wanted._

And that was why he couldn’t be in the Tower, that was why he needed to be _thinking,_ and occupied, because all he could think about was _Tony._

He refocused in on the page, realized that he’d drawn one of the background characters in with Tony’s goatee, his bright eyes, the sly little tilt of his lips when he tells a joke.

The Tony he’d drawn was alive with movement, hair curled like it did when he hadn’t bothered styling it, or when he’d been running his hands through it like he did when he was frustrated, the motions of his hands clear, even in still, grey, pencil.

The focus character was, in comparison, flat, and unemotive. Like, he thought, most people, when placed beside Tony. Tony was always so bright, and expressive, full of life and light and _warmth,_ that everyone else seemed dull in comparison. 

When he looked back up, it was to the organized hustle of everyone packing up and about to go home for the day, and, feeling no better than he had when he’d walked in, he joined them. 

* * *

Despite the “emergency” meeting that had dragged on, and on, and on, Tony was in a surprisingly decent mood.

Probably, he thought, because instead of paying attention to the half dozen or so board members who kept insisting that _Tony_ had to have been the one who screwed this up — he _knew_ his drawings, ok, and he knew that if the contractors had actually followed them, this would not have happened — he could pay attention to his phone. 

Specifically, the texts that Amanda was sending him. 

The first had been Monty, sprawled over the top of a cat tree like royalty, eyes closed in what looked like bliss, about 30 minutes after the meeting had started. Tony had sent back a string of exclamation marks, and Amanda had sent a string of pictures, first, her hand scratching Monty’s head, one that was just a blur, and then one of her hand, held securely in Monty’s mouth. 

_Having regrets?_ He’d sent back, after earning a couple glares when he’d failed to hold back a snort of laughter.

_He doesn’t like me :(_ Amanda had replied.

_He likes you fine,_ He had said, _If he didn’t like you you’d be bleeding. Gentle chomping is how he shows affection._

_I’m not sure I’d call that gentle,_ She said, _But I’m not bleeding. No rabies shots for me, yay._

He’d actually laughed aloud at that one, loudly enough that the majority of the people in the room had given the evil eye. “Is something funny, Mr. Stark?” One of them had asked — Tony hadn’t bothered to learn his name — in the most patronizing tone he’d heard in a long time, like Tony was a child misbehaving in class, and his good mood evaporated. 

“No,” He said, saccharine sweet, “Just the fact that _none_ of you believe me when I say that the designs were _sound_ , and that if the contractors had _actually followed them_ , none of this would have happened. What is _funny,_ ” He bit out, “Is that the last two days have been a complete and utter waste of all of our time, because none of you have any faith in the architects, in the engineers, in _me,_ the person who _owns_ your asses. Because you are falling for the oldest damn con in the book, and blaming _me_ for it.” He took a breath, after finishing his tirade, and, to his complete and utter lack of surprise, no one in the room batted an eye, just _looked_ at him, with a mix of pity and annoyance, like he was throwing a damn tantrum. Like what he was saying didn’t even _matter._

The chilling rush of frustration and humiliation was, unfortunately, familiar, even though it hit him just as hard as it always did. He wanted to _scream,_ to ask these assholes what, exactly, he’d have to do to _prove_ himself, for them to trust his judgment on literally anything at all. 

Of course, he knew the answer. He knew that even if he reached whatever unachievable standard they were measuring him up to, the notches on the wall, marked by Howard, marked by Obie, they’d just move the goal. Again, and again, and again, always looking at him with that infuriating mix of pitying exasperation, like he was a child, like he was too young, too inexperienced, too _stupid,_ to know that his ideas were worthless. 

His skin was crawling. _Oh, Tony,_ something in the back of his head said, _You’re nothing, didn’t you know? They’re just humouring you, didn’t you know?_

_Shut up._ He snarled at it, the voice that sounded so much like Howard, so much like Obie, the voice that was constantly clawing at the back of his mind, _I’m right. I know my designs._

_Do you?_ It asked, quiet and insidious, _What if you’re wrong? You’re always wrong, always guilty, this is your fault, you stupid boy—_

“Fine.” He snarled, shoved his phone in his pocket and stood, hands flat on the table, “I am going to LA. I am going to sort this out _myself._ He said, and if he wasn’t just talking to the board members, if doubt had started to poison him, well… 

No one else had to know. 

Good mood thoroughly destroyed, Tony genuinely considered taking a detour to the shelter before he got a text from Pepper, a link to a news article that he knew was going to be bad before he even clicked through and a quick question about how he was doing. 

_Coming to LA. Gonna fix this._ He sent back, and, after taking a deep breath, opened the link. 

_Stark Industries: Health Hazard?_ It said, in big, eye-catching letters, right over top of a picture of the half-collapsed facility, and Tony groaned, checked the time. 

_See you @ LAX._ Pepper sent back, and Tony smiled a bit. He’d go talk to the contractors, prove that there had been _nothing_ wrong with the plans, and Pepper would believe him. 

Pepper had his back. Pepper always had his back. 

He’d stop at the Tower to pack, and update the others, and try to cajole Steve into joining him, and with any luck, he’d be able to catch some sleep on the plane before diving right back into the hell that seemed to be his working life this week. 

* * *

Steve was in the kitchen when he got in, staring at a cup of tea like it held the secrets of happiness.

“Hey,” Tony greeted, bee-lining to the fridge to see if there were any leftovers. All of the sandwiches that he’d put away last night were still there, and confused — because usually, food Steve made didn’t last that long — he shrugged and took the saran-wrapped plate out. Steve jolted and looked up at him. He, frankly, looked kinda horrible, circles darker than Tony had ever seen on him under his eyes, hair a dishevelled mess. He frowned, put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You ok? You’re looking kinda—“

“I’m fine,” Steve said stiffly, shrugged Tony’s hand off his shoulder, didn’t look him in the eye. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

“Oh,” Tony said, felt wrong-footed suddenly, took a bite of the sandwich to cover for it. “Uh, anyway,” He said, feeling strangely rejected by how Steve had pushed away his touch, busied himself with the coffee machine so he wouldn’t have to look at Steve, “I’m flying out to LA, you wanna come with?” 

He met Steve’s eyes when he turned around, completely by accident, like Steve had been staring at him while Tony was looking away, and there was something deeply sad and longing in them before they shuttered. “No, thanks,” He said flatly, glanced down and away from Tony’s face, and something pained showed in the set of his brows before that, too, smoothed away.

The disappointment he felt at that was choking, and potent, and something he should’ve expected, and he didn’t quite know how to deal with it, other than by plastering on a fake smile, nodding in agreement. “Yeah,” He said, “Of course, I get it. Better things to do.” 

_It’s Steve, of course he has better things to do than follow you across the country on a whim,_ That same little voice told him, pessimistic and biting and horrible, _Why would someone like him ever follow you?_

_Shut up,_ He told it, but there wasn’t any bite to it. It was right, after all. 

Steve didn’t look up at him, or say anything, kept both hands around his mug of tea, knuckles so white with strain that Tony was afraid that the mug was going to shatter. “Well,” He said, awkwardly, when he’d finished his sand-witch, when Steve shook his head no when Tony offered him one, still not looking him in the eye. “I’m gonna go, then.” 

“Right now?” Steve said, his head snapping up.

“Yes?” Tony said, couldn’t quite bring himself to look Steve in the eye, the bitter, guilty feeling growing. “The plane should be ready soon, I really just came back to— grab some things, before I left.” 

“Oh.” Steve said, mouth pursed in a think line, “Ok.”

Tony nodded, not that anyone saw it, with how Steve’s eyes were firmly focused on the tea in his mug, took a breath, grasping, desperately, for something to say, wanted, for an absurd moment, to apologize. 

Nothing came, and, chest tight, he turned out of the kitchen, and left. 

* * *

Much to his disappointment, he didn’t get any sleep on the plane and wished he’d taken the suit, instead.

It wasn’t like he had anything to carry, and the armour would’ve been far, far faster, than even the jet. But, sleeping in the suit was not an experience he wanted to repeat, and certainly not a feeling he wanted to carry into what was sure to be an absolute clusterfuck. 

He didn’t get any work done either, unable to concentrate on anything from paperwork to designs, and, for the most part, stared out the window, at the quillwork fields and fluffy clouds, and tried to figure out exactly what he’d done to get Steve acting this way. 

Because, yes, it _had_ to have been something he’d done. He’d seen Steve upset, before, more times than he cared to count, just... never like _that._ Never with that cold, pained look on his face. And never so impersonal, so tense, wound up like a tension spring.

And Steve had never, not once, shied away from Tony’s touch. 

The worst thing was, he didn’t even know what it was that he’d done to have Steve look at him like that. Things had seemed normal, that morning before he left, Steve had smiled at him, like he always did, bright like the sun, so warm that Tony always had to stop himself from basking in it. 

He could still feel the warmth of Steve’s hand, like a brand, around his wrist, surprisingly gentle as they clasped the watch around his wrist, so, so gentle, despite their size. Steve’s hands were so big, Tony always thought, but graceful in a way he couldn’t help but watch. Artist’s hands. 

That morning was honestly mostly just a blur, as cluttered as his head as been, but he remembered Steve. Steve’s smile, Steve’s eyes, Steve’s hands. 

Even when he was so deep in thought he could barely remember to breathe, he always spared some of his mind to Steve. 

His frown deepened. He hadn’t even _seen_ Steve the rest of the day, not until he’d gotten home. And then—

Steve had been acting strangely. He’d made a plate of sandwiches, and hadn’t _eaten_ any, and when he looked at Tony—

He’d had that same delighted look on his face that he always did, when he said ‘hi’ to Tony, the one Tony treasured, even though he was sure that Steve’s face did that with everyone, because that’s just the type of person he was. Nothing to do with Tony, of course. Steve couldn’t look that honestly, openly _happy_ just from the mere fact that Tony was in his presence. 

And then… 

He’d seen that it was _him_ , and his face had fallen an instant later. 

Tony felt his stomach twist in knots, nauseous and hollow at the same time, still no less frustrated than it had been. Steve had started acting weird the _second_ he’d seen Tony, but Tony still had no clue what he’d _done._

It had to have been something that had happened sometime in-between when he’d left, and when he’d come home, but the only thing he’d been doing all day was arguing with the board of directors over the facility collapse, and—

Oh. 

Feeling actually, truly sick now, Tony opened his phone, and clicked through to the article. It’d come out yesterday, and he hadn’t _seen_ it, and— 

Steve must’ve seen it, he read the news religiously, bought a paper every morning when he went on a run, and yesterday’s issue had been full of speculation that he was the one who had put his employees, the employees of the people he’d hired to oversee the building of the new LA facility, in danger. That _he_ was at fault, and that he had been covering it up. 

Steve thought— 

He thought— 

Steve thought he would do that? Steve thought that he would put people in danger, needlessly, selfishly, and then cover it up, because he didn’t want to admit that he was wrong? 

_Of course he does,_ The quiet voice told him, _When have you ever proven otherwise?_

“Shut up,” He said, desperately, trying to force it out of his mind, only realized that he’d said it out loud when JARVIS spoke up. 

“Sir?” He asked, “Is there a problem?” 

Tony put his face in his hands, sucked in a breath and let it out, shaky in a way that could, if you were being exceptionally generous, be called a laugh. “I think Steve hates me.” He muttered. 

JARVIS was quiet for a second. “I do not believe that is true,” He said, bafflement clear in his voice, “There has not been any interaction between the two of you that would suggest such a thing—“

Tony snorted. “Gotta upgrade your cameras then, I guess. Or your programming, if you can’t see—“

“Both my optical sensors and my programming are perfectly fine,” JARVIS told him, affronted, paused in a way that meant he was choosing his next words carefully, “I believe that there has been a misunderstanding, between you and Captain Rogers. If you would allow me to tell him about the shelter—“

JARVIS trailed off, and Tony was already shaking his head, pushing back the sick feeling in his stomach, doing his best to put his mind back to some semblance of order, to shut away that little voice that was still whispering _what if’s_ into the back of his head. “Absolutely not,” He said, “Jesus, he puts up with enough from me, if he finds out I’m basically a crazy cat lady—“

“—I don’t think he’ll see it that way—“

“You _can’t,_ ” Tony said, desperate and pleading and _knowing_ he sounded pathetic, “If he knows about the cats, I’ll have to explain _why,_ and that means telling him about the chest plate, and telling him that I’m not— I’m not— and then I’ll be off the team, and I _can’t_ —“

“I won’t tell him,” JARVIS interrupted, for which Tony, who maybe, possibly, might’ve been spiralling, was thankful, “Not if you tell me not to. I just—“ He paused, again, and when he spoke again he sounded more uncertain that Tony had heard him in a while, “I want to help.” 

Tony’s heart ached. “Of course you do,” He said, pleased to note that his voice was already much steadier, and below him, the San Gabriel mountains were fading into suburbs. “You always do.” 

JARVIS didn’t respond as they came into land, and even still feeling like he’d been punched in the gut, at least now he had a _plan._

He’d prove that the site foreman had caused the facility to collapse on purpose, put both his and Tony’s employees in danger doing it, and put the bastard in jail. 

And then, hopefully, Steve wouldn’t have any reason to look at him like Tony had disappointed him.

* * *

Pepper met him at the bottom of the jet stairs, and smiled at him, strained but real. She pulled him into a quick hug, which he sank into gratefully. “Missed you.” He muttered into her shoulder, clinging maybe just a bit harder than necessary.

“Missed you too,” Pepper replied, pulled away from the hug and started towards where Happy was waiting with the car. 

Tony took a breath, braced himself. “So, what’s on the agenda for today, boss?”

Pepper shook her head at him, barely, over the roof of the car before they both got in, but Tony caught her smile. 

“We’re heading straight to the facility,” She said, as soon as the doors were closed, and Tony had finished heckling Happy, “Start doing this the old-fashioned way. If they really did do this on purpose, they’re not gonna hand the evidence over.”

“I can get JARVIS to scan the rubble,” Tony suggested, lifted the suitcase suit in demonstration, “We can do a simulated reconstruction—“

“—and even just by tallying up the types of materials,” Pepper continued, “We can prove they didn’t follow the designs, we can get the architects we consulted with to weigh in —“

“—The city, too, they approved it, they’ll be able to confirm that the designs—“ 

Tony broke off, and this time, it wasn’t because Pepper was already continuing his train of thought. She looked at him, concern on his features. “What’s wrong?” She asked, “The designs were airtight. We know this.” 

“But,” Tony said, unable to keep the doubt back any longer, “What if they weren’t? What if— what if this is all my fault, and I’m doing exactly what everyone’s saying I am, covering it up because I can’t stand to be wrong, what if I put people in danger and now I’m— I’m attacking the people trying to stand up to me—“

“Tony,” Pepper said, forcefully, and with great difficulty, managed to halt the words spilling from his mouth, a barrage of doubt and anxiety, that felt like it was drowning him, “Tony, breath,” She grabbed his hands across the seat in-between them, squeezed them tightly, “Are _you_ confident in them?” She asked, didn’t drop his gaze. 

“I was,” Tony answered softly, “But now, I don’t know, I’ve made mistakes before—“

Pepper snorted. “Not with math. Not with this,” She said, “Not if your life isn’t the only one on the line.” She seemed to notice that he was unconvinced, sighed. “Ok, then trust me. I was in the room, with the people from the city, with the architects, with all _kinds_ of engineers, and _all_ of them approved it. Your design was _sound_ , Tony.” 

“I hope so,” Tony said, not quite agreement, but not argument, either, tugged his hands away. Pepper looked at him, that same concerned look that she always got when she was around him too long. “We’ve got a plan, and we’ve got JARVIS, and about two dozen professionals that we can haul in to back us up. We’re gonna be fine.” 

“Yes,” Pepper said, with much more conviction than Tony had, “We’re gonna be fine.” 

And, well, with that kind of force in her tone, the force that wasn’t simply belief in what she was saying, but willingness to do whatever it took to _make_ it true, it was hard not to feel better.

At least, until the car pulled up in the parking lot of the long-evacuated Stark Industries facility, and the side that had collapsed, the addition Tony had been planning for _months_ , was nothing but an empty pit, swarming with yellow-vested workmen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


End file.
